


Some Assistance Required

by seraphina_snape



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Aliases, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, New Year's Eve, New Year's Kiss, New Years, Undercover, Undercover as Married, Undercover as a Couple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-05-10 06:54:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5575627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seraphina_snape/pseuds/seraphina_snape
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Finch? Everything okay?" </p><p>Finch cleared his throat. "I, ehm, I require your assistance, Mr. Reese."</p><p>John was up and across the room before Finch had finished the sentence. Looking into his weapons closet, John grabbed a second handgun and his rifle case. He hesitated. "Do I need to bring grenades?"</p><p>"What? No, John. No grenades. No rifles, so handguns, no tazers." Finch sighed. "This is a different kind of situation."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Assistance Required

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mizzy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mizzy/gifts).



> For Mizzy, who mentioned Finch/Reese in her gift-giving request at Leverageland's Winterfest. I know you like fake/pretend dating, so here you go!

"Mr. Reese?"

John froze mid sit-up. Finch sounded strange. Uncomfortable, pinched. Sounded like there was a crowd in the background, too. This was how John imagined Finch would sound if someone were to stand over him and loudly tell everyone around them details about Finch's past.

"Finch? Everything okay?" 

Finch cleared his throat. "I, ehm, I require your assistance, Mr. Reese."

John was up and across the room before Finch had finished the sentence. Looking into his weapons closet, John grabbed a second handgun and his rifle case. He hesitated. "Do I need to bring grenades?"

"What? No, John. No grenades. No rifles, so handguns, no tazers." Finch sighed. "This is a different kind of situation."

"Okay." When Finch didn't elaborate, John put his rifle case down and closed the weapons closet. "Finch, this sort of thing generally works better if you actually tell people what it is you need them to do. Because if you don't, I'm going to assume you're in some kind of trouble and show up at the library in ten, armed for a small private war."

"That won't be necessary, Mr. Reese. It's more of a… personal matter." Finch sighed again and after a few moments the sounds of the crowd in the background shut off. "As you know, I have several cover identities. Since most of them are legitimate businessmen, I do try to cultivate these identities whenever I can to keep them functioning."

"Like your work as Mr. Wren or the monthly luncheons as Mr. Swallow," John said. "Yeah, I know."

"One of my aliases is Harold Starling, part owner and head of R&D at LSG Enterprises. Apart from board meetings, I usually only stop by the office once or twice a month to look over the current projects and sign off on anything that needs my signature. But ever since I first established this cover, Harold Starling has been a fixture at the company New Year's party."

"And you need me to what? Call you and give you an excuse to leave early?"

"No. Like I said, it's tradition that Harold Starling hosts the New Year's party. That naturally means I always have to stay until after midnight at least. I'm also the one handing out the gift basket to noted employees as well as the little something that each employee gets as part of their holiday package."

"Do you need extra security?"

Finch laughed weakly. "I suppose you could call it that. You see, one of the female employees has had a crush on Harold Starling for years now. Unfortunately she made the very bad decision to get somewhat drunk and she's been making advances all evening. Nothing I've said seemed to make a difference."

Anyone else would just have her removed from the party and fired, but John could see why Finch might want to avoid it. Any kind of scandal brought publicity and Finch avoided public scrutiny no matter what alias he was using. Besides, at this point office gossip would be concentrating on this woman making a fool of herself in front of the boss at the company party. If Finch took action, the focus might shift to him in an unfavorable way.

"Do you need to me to quietly remove her from the room?"

"Not exactly. In a last ditch effort to divert her attentions, I claimed to be involved with someone else."

"Ah."

"Yes, quite. Had this been a planned event, I would have arranged for a convenient date, but it was a spur of the moment try to make myself unavailable and I'm sad to say it backfired on me. Now Ms. Moore seems even more intent on keeping me company since my spouse has apparently abandoned me."

"Text me the address. I can be on my way in eight minutes."

"I'm texting you the address now. The drive should take you about twenty-five minutes if you avoid any traffic hotspots that might be clogged by holiday traffic," Finch said. "And John? Thank you."

#

John was outside the hotel twenty-eight minutes later, wearing his second most expensive suit and the cologne that had come with his John Riley cover.

He followed Finch's directions to the large ground floor conference room that had been redecorated into a tasteful, festive party lounge. A bar ran along one wall, with several bartenders serving the men and women sitting or standing at the bar. Servers decked out in all black were making the rounds, handing out drinks and snacks to anyone who made eye contact. Small round tables dominated half of the room, with comfortable looking armchairs and sofas surrounding them. A dance floor took up most of the rest of the space, with small groups of people standing around the edges, chatting and drinking. 

There wasn't much visible security apart from the guards at each entry point, but John didn't doubt that there were security cameras and a few other measures in place to guarantee a safe and smooth running of this party.

"Sir? I'll need to check your ID against the guest list."

"Of course." John smiled at the security guard and handed over his ID. "John Russell. I'm listed as Mr. Starling's guest."

The guard's eyebrows twitched, but he kept his face impassive. If he had any problem with him being Harold's date, he didn't show it. He scrolled through the list on his tablet. 

"Ah, yes. Mr. Russell, guest of Mr. Starling. Enjoy your evening, sir."

John accepted his ID back and stepped past the guard into the room.

John spotted Finch almost immediately, his rigid posture making him stand out among the partygoers. Finch had his back to the wall, eyes flitting this way and that, his drink clutched in his hand like he needed something to hold on to. 

It took him a few seconds to spot Finch's little problem. She was at the bar, waiting for a drink. Her gaze kept straying to Finch and it was decidedly predatory. 

Smirking a little, John kept to the edges of the crowd and strode towards Finch. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Finch's little problem take notice of the way he was obviously headed for Finch. Mindful of their audience of one, John softened his smirk to a smile. 

"Harold," he said softly once he got into hearing range.

Finch perked up and turned towards him. "John. I am so glad you're here."

John only stopped once he was in Finch's personal space, his fingers brushing over the small flag pin on Finch' lapel. "She's watching us," John said quietly.

"Ms. Moore?"

John could practically see the effort it took for Harold to keep his eyes on John instead of checking what the woman was doing.

"Hmm. The blonde at the bar, right? Red dress, black scarf, gaudy earrings."

"That's her," Finch confirmed.

"All right. So let's take care of this little problem." John ran his hand down Finch's chest and then reached for the man's glass. 

Finch relinquished his hold on the glass without question and John downed the last sip from the glass. 

"Let's get us new drinks and find a place to sit," John said with a grin.

"You are enjoying this too much," Finch grumbled, but his reluctant smile said otherwise.

"Ah, Harold. In between kneecapping guys, being shot at and arrested, this is almost like a vacation. Good drinks, comfortable seats and great company. What's not to enjoy? Besides, it was your idea."

Finch gave him an exasperated look. "Yes, I am aware that I brought this on myself." He fell into step with John. "Do we have to get drinks at the bar? Ms. Moore is there."

"Of course she is. How convenient for us, don't you think?" John leant down a little, his lips skimming the shell of Finch's ear. "You can introduce me."

"This was a terrible idea," Finch breathed, but he didn't object when John put his hand on his upper back. 

"Hi," John said when the bartender made eye contact. "Can we have another Scotch and a Bourbon?"

The bartender nodded and moved away, leaving John and Finch alone at the end of the bar. Alone, except for Finch's little problem. 

John dropped his hand from Finch's back and let it fall down. Their hands brushed against each other and John stroked his fingers over the back of Finch's hand. Their bodies hid their hands from the room at large, but of course Ms. Moore had a front row seat. 

"You know, this party is far nicer than you've let me believe, Harold."

"Perhaps," Finch agreed, "but would it have helped knowing you're missing a great party instead of a mediocre one?"

"Not really," John admitted. "Although maybe I would have tried harder to get out of going to _our_ parties. They're never this good."

"You've been here five minutes, how would you know?"

John and Finch exchanged a quick look and turned to Ms. Moore. Her speech was slightly slurred, and now that John could study her up close, he saw the glassy, slightly unfocused eyes and the drunk-stubborn set of her mouth. He doubted she'd have said a thing had she been sober. 

"For one, the drinks are better here," John said. "Plus, our New Year's parties always lack one important detail. You, Harold," John added with a warm look at Finch. 

"I'm sorry, John. You know I would have gone to every single one of them, but as the organizer of our yearly holiday party, I can't very well miss it."

"I know; that's what I told Michael, too. He wanted me to stay longer, but this year I stood firm. I told him I'd alternate between companies or something, but to be honest, I just didn't want to greet another new year without you."

Harold smiled at him and then froze. "Oh, where are my manners? I'm so sorry. John, this is Josephine Moore; she works in the PR department. Ms. Moore, this is my husband John Russell."

John put on his most charming smile. "Hi, nice to meet you."

"Likewise," Ms. Moore muttered before settling into a pout.

Luckily their drinks arrived before they had to make more small talk. John snatched up his Bourbon and handed the Scotch to Finch. "Shall we?"

#

They made the rounds for an hour, greeting people and stopping at smaller group to chat for a bit. Finch didn't always introduce him as his husband, but John made sure that his body language projected to everyone that he and Harold were there together. Finch mirrored him, showing that he was quite skilled at undercover work himself.

By the end of the first hour, every partygoer was convinced that Finch and John had met four and a half years ago at a fundraiser, started dating shortly after and got married nearly three years ago. John was sure that Harold Starling's personnel records would be altered before morning to reflect every lie they told today, just in case anyone got curious and decided to check up on it.

"So, you have a party for the same people at the same place every year?" John asked once they'd claimed a small sofa for themselves. "And you're always there till the end, handing out presents and wishing everyone a happy new year? How predictable of you, Harold."

Finch scoffed. "Hardly. Unfortunately I can't change the date, but this party hasn't been in the same location twice in the last ten years. Different caterers, different interior designers, different organization committee, different security staff." 

"That's very security conscious of you, Harold," John quipped.

"I'm glad you approve," Finch shot back. 

Their eyes met and John couldn't help but grin. An hour and a half ago, his prospects for the evening had consisted of working out until he was too tired to stand, taking a shower half-asleep and then crashing until morning when – hopefully – another number would be waiting for him. Right now, sitting on a comfortable leather sofa with Finch at his side, John wouldn't mind a short respite from the numbers if he got to spend the time with Finch. The new year was looking up.

Finch grinned back at him. "I didn't think it would happen, but I'm actually enjoying myself. Thank you, John."

"Anytime, Harold. I'm actually having fun myself."

"The party officially ends at one; present are handed out before midnight. We have roughly another hour before I need to go get the presents organized and distributed."

"I'll help."

Finch gave him a sideways glance. "The security in this place is quite excellent. There is no need to babysit me."

"Uh-huh. Except that guy over there is not taking his job seriously at all. As far as he's concerned, this harmless little company party is not reason enough to keep his guard up." John gave a subtle not to one of the security guards. Instead of watching the crowd, he seemed to be playing a game on the tablet. He turned to look at Finch. "Humor me."

Finch sighed. "Fine, you can help."

John sat back and put his arm along the back of the couch, nudging Finch until he leaned into the touch. They spent the rest of the second hour that way, sitting together on the couch. Several people waved or called out a short greeting as they passed, but nobody seemed to want to intrude on them. John didn't mind; he watched the crowd and listened to Finch give him background info on whatever employee happened to cross their line of sight. 

Close to eleven, Finch patted John's knee and stood up. "If you still intend to help, follow me."

John moved through the crowd behind Finch, nodding and smiling until they went through a small side door into an antechamber. Three doors led off the small chamber; all stood open. John pushed past Finch and did a quick check of the rooms.

"Is anyone hiding behind the potted plant, Mr. Reese, or is it safe to come in?"

John grinned. "No assassins swinging from the chandeliers either."

"The staff should have prepared a trolley for me to push onto the stage – we need to go over that and make sure everything is there. If you're going to shadow me on this, you might as well help me hand out the presents. The silver wrapped ones are the generic holiday gift every employee receives. Inside should be a gift card for a spa and wellness complex – employees can choose between using the gym, having a spa treatment or simply enjoying a day splashing around the pools. Each gift also contains a box of chocolates for the ladies and a small bottle of expensive liquor for the gentlemen."

"Green accents for the men, lavender for the ladies?" John asked, holding up one of the presents.

"Correct." Finch quickly counted the rows of presents on top of the trolley while John counted the lower shelf. Finch checked the number against his list an nodded. All there, with two or three to spare. 

A second trolley was loaded with larger, gold-wrapped presents. "These are for the employees that received a special award or commendation this year or to mark other special occasions."

"Such as?"

"Two employees have been with us for twenty years this year. We have one employee retiring this year – she had her last day two months ago. One is the top seller in our sales department, one saved another employees life when she accidentally grabbed the wrong sandwich out of the fridge and suffered an anaphylactic shock. But you needn't concern yourself with them; I have the names and faces memorized and I know which present goes where."

"Okay, how is this going to work?" 

"We ask every guest to take a seat while the employees will line up to walk across the stage. Prepare yourself for a lot of joking references to everyone's high school graduation – apparently the experiences are inherently similar, except everyone receives a gift instead of their diploma."

Finch moved to the door and caught the attention of a tall, pale man in an ill-fitting suit. He hurried off to the small stage and shortly afterwards the music faded out. Finch closed the door so John only heard the voice and not the words, but it wasn't hard to imagine that the man was getting everyone organized.

"That was Brent Carson, assistant to the board. He always gives the impression of a nervous wreck, but he's quite capable."

Passing out the presents went smoothly enough. Most people had already been through the process several times and knew how it would work. The rest just followed the masses and did what everyone else was doing. John stood behind Finch and handed him the presents, smiling whenever someone looked at him. Finch shook hands, thanked everyone for their good work and wished them a good time for the rest of the evening.

After everyone had re-joined their guests, Harold asked the handful of employees waiting off to the side to join him on the stage. John did his best to blend into the background, slinking off to the side as soon as he could. Before, with more than a dozen people on stage at any time, John needed to stick close. Now, with only six people up there, he needed the distance to be able to scan both the audience and the people on stage. 

Nothing happened. Finch passed out the last present, thanked everyone for their work and then passed the microphone to the band leader who seemed to double as the entertainer as the clock marched towards midnight.

"Eight more minutes," Finch said when he joined John at the edge of the dance floor.

"Are we leaving early tonight?"

"As soon after midnight as we can."

"Won't it look suspicious to people?"

"Suggestive, perhaps," Finch said. "But not suspicious. While being the subject of office gossip because of a secret romance was not what I had hoped for when I arrived here earlier, but it's preferable to being at the center of a scandal involving a young employee, alcohol and rejected advances. Whatever the rumor mill says about you and me will be much more favorable than anything it would have made of Ms. Moore's drunken declarations. She seems to be keeping her distance – which is what I wanted."

"Her distance maybe, but I'm not sure you're clear of the scandal yet," John said, watching Finch's little problem over the man's shoulder. "It looks like she used the last two hours to go from slightly drunk to very drunk. She's still at the bar."

"Mr. Carson made sure she didn't attempt to come up to the stage. He went over to hand her the present."

"She doesn't look very happy about it."

Finch pressed his lips together. "I can't think of anything else to do."

"There's nothing you can do, Harold. She just saw that she has no chance, and now she's angry about it. She'll get drunk and then she'll get over it."

"And if she doesn't?"

"You'll give it a couple of months, and if she doesn't, you'll fire her. No scandal, no screaming, drunken scene. She'll get severance pay and a good reference and you'll get to keep your cover."

Finch stared at a point beyond John's right shoulder. "This is why I prefer computers. They're simple and uncomplicated. Predictable, even. People? People are unpredictable, emotional messes."

John snatched two champagne glasses from a passing waiter and handed one to Finch. "Surely you're not condemning all emotion."

"No, not at all. Emotion can be a motivating force, a source of comfort and happiness. But sometimes it's just so overwhelmingly negative."

John didn't disagree, so he kept quiet for a moment. "Would you rather be without emotions?"

Finch looked up at him, a peculiar look on his face. "No. I sometimes wish I could control my emotions better or give them a more appropriate or useful direction, but without emotion life would be pretty boring, don't you think?"

Before John could answer, the band leader on stage started a countdown from ten. "Ten!" 

The crowd joined in before he got to eight, everyone counting down to one. 

"Nine!"

John leaned down to talk directly into Finch's ear, to make sure he was heard. "Harold, if you don't want me to kiss you at midnight, you should say something before we get to one."

"Eight!"

Finch sent a nervous glance around the crowd, none of whom were paying them much attention.

"Seven!"

Finch motioned for John to lean down again. "The charade needn't extend that far," Finch said, just loud enough for John to hear. "I've been private enough not to mention my husband at work, so I think we can get away without a kiss."

"Six!"

John turned his head, his nose bumping against Finch's gelled hair. "I wouldn't be kissing you as Harold Starling's husband, Finch. Just you and me."

"Five!"

John met Finch's startled gaze when he pulled back to give Finch a chance to respond.

"Four!"

John cupped Finch's cheek in his free hand. "Well?" he mouthed.

"Three!"

Finch didn't move, staring at John with that same peculiar look on his face.

"Two!"

John swallowed down his rising disappointment and let his hand slide away from Finch's skin, pretending to brush some lint off Finch's shoulder. 

John didn't struggle to put on his undercover face that he intended to wear for the rest of this part. After all, John Russell was here with his husband and everything was all right between him and Harold Starling, and John Reese was a trained operative who was used to putting his own needs last. He could pretend for fifteen more minutes and then go home to get shitfaced. A hangover wouldn't make work easier in the morning, but maybe the sting of his headache would take something off the sting of rejection.

But then Finch caught his hand, giving him a slight nod when John looked at him. 

"One!"

John smiled and squeezed Finch's hand. He bent down, aware that Finch's neck injury prevented him from tilting his head back more than a little. Finch's lips were warm and pliant, and John could feel his answering smile as they kissed. 

He would have chosen a different place and a different time for their first kiss, but in a way it was oddly fitting that it would happen in a crowd of strangers who had no idea who they really were. Undercover as a married couple was still better than on a rooftop, strapped to a bomb that was about to go off, or at Union Station with Root shooting her way through civilians, which were the two times John had been the most tempted to throw caution in the wind and just grab Finch for a kiss. 

Around them the world exploded into indoor fireworks, flashing lights and a discordant chorus of 'happy new year's. John was aware of it all, even with most of his attention centered on Finch and the way their lips touched, soft and firm at the same time. The part of his brain that analyzed and judged situations was quiet, giving him no indication of any lurking danger. 

Finch pulled back as the noise around them died down a little. His face was flushed and he was smiling. "Happy New Year, John."

John laughed and clinked the half-forgotten champagne glass in his hand against Finch's. "Happy New Year, Harold." He leaned down a little and pressed a quick kiss to Finch's temple, feeling something settle in his chest when Finch not only permitted the gesture but leaned into it. "I have a feeling it's gonna be a good one."

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
